jaggernaut
by reminiscent-afterthought
Summary: They were both crazed for blood and the Dark Lord, and the perfect match.
1. Pretty

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
1: Pretty**

A woman could look pretty all they liked, but all it took was a bit of blood to show their true side.

Most women fell apart at the seams when painted with blood. He'd lick it delicately off, enjoying the bitter twang on his tongue and the shivers of fear that led his own body to tremble with delightful anticipation. He'd make sure to enjoy it thoroughly, because the anticipation lead to nothing, mostly. A little bit of foreplay, and the taste of that bittersweet red on his lips was the best of it.

But when _she_ was oozing blood from under too-long fingernails, his soul preceded its body in hunger, and her eyes would meet him in that same crazed hunger. And she'd meet his eyes with a teasing grin, and he'd grin back and accept the game of cat, mouse and bird she offered.

After all, he couldn't be half-starved when he caught that deliciously not-pretty – almost _feral _– mouse.


	2. Camping

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
2: Camping**

It was like being out in the woods, waiting to shoot a cutting curse at a deer and watching its blood splatter rocks and call out the hungry wolves. And soon, they'd get to splatter the blood of those wolves as well, painting stone and earth a brilliant bright red.

Except the disgustingly innocent deer were Muggles, and the wolves all bark, no bite were the disgraces of the Wizarding world. But they were still the hunters, hiding out in the thicket and waiting to pounce. The pair in a world of their own, watching the sweet little scene winding slowly down…

Their eyes met over the prelude, and they shared a smirk together before the music started. Their wands spun; their soul sungs, and it wasn't long before the both of them were laughing, the tips of their robes soaking up that dirty red.


	3. Party

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
3: Party**

She didn't often get to see his little acts, but she enjoyed it. After all, Mr Crouch wasn't a man any Death Eater was fond of, and all were more than happy to witness any slight to the name. Personally, she'd rather a hammer than a needle-prick, but every drop of poison brought about a thrill of its own.

It was too bad though; they'd been _such_ a respected family before they'd screamed out their foolish ideals. And the stubborn fool clung too desperately to them: the so-called monsters he thought he hunted had rubbed off quite strongly on him. The cold glint in the face of death. The emotionless face that watched withering pain beneath him. The killing without thought; the moving on without realising how many simple innocent pawns were swept off the board.

And then there was the son, pretending all the while he was trapped in the Auror parties. Firing curses behind a mask – and his father never knew the dog lapping that feeling up beneath, and he wouldn't know for a long long time: not until the time was perfect to _shatter_ his little glass façade. Because the only two differences between the father and the son was the lying heart of the first, and the hungry tongue with loosened reigns on the second.


	4. Sugar

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
4: Sugar**

She despised the sweet tang of sugar; it was one of those things from the upper echelons she was more than happy to cast aside. What she lusted after was the bitter clouting taste of something strong and thick.

She loved Firewhiskey: how it set fire to her throat. She loved her place as a Death Eater: the screams that excited her soul. She didn't mind her husband either; he could give her a thrilling ride when he wished, and they shared the same sentiments in the end. But it wasn't love: love was an unquenching fire; they just danced when the music was upbeat and invigorating, and drifted elsewhere blasted to the ear-shattering max.

But _he_ was a kindred spirit that sullied her hands and dress and had her soul shivering with delight, and she wanted the taste of that bitter mix of jealousy, attraction and blood within her throat.


	5. Spice

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
5: Spice**

He was bored, and irritated, and she had thrown a wrench into his father's perfect little dream world the moment he met her.

She looked just like Medusa: poison within her hardened curls of hair, her lips, her coal-studded eyes… A danger signal all the way, but she was _worth_ looking at. Not like the cowards that hid behind power. Not like the woman who screamed their side was justice but lost their pretty locks and tongue under the Cruciatus Curse.

He thought he'd never seen a woman who proudly displayed their mark fall apart; not like those pitiful excuses for Aurors – and especially not _those_, men and women alike, who'd fallen apart at his father's command. Scared to use the Unforgivables; scared to walk. Scared to even _live_.

But when he met _her_ eyes, he knew she wasn't scared little china-doll, but a real woman: one worthy of the world.


	6. Reach

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
6: Reach**

She was already marriage: a good and respectable marriage. On top of that, she was high up in ranks – and he was just a new recruit.

Suffice to say, she was way out of his reach. But she had also been the one to spot him first – or he, her if one wanted to be _exact_ about it – and it was too late to avert his gaze. Not that he cared, particularly. And it didn't look like she cared either.

After all, he knew her identity, and that gave him the pleasure of seeing more of her. And feel more of that corrosive heat that blistered his skin, peeling away old crumbling skin for a new sweat-shining freshness –

And, sometimes, he thought he was even close enough to touch.


	7. Nice

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
7: Nice**

The sort of woman his father would approve of would be "nice". Nice: boring, conservative, and a mindless coward. The sort of woman his unfortunate mother was; if she ever had a spark, it was long since doused in his father's heavy vat of honey, smooth-talking the public and the Aurors so they could cause a carnage on a Death Eater's future and sleep all the better of it – after the weak-minded fled in the opposite direction.

But even they think they can sleep happy, in the illusion that men with stronger will can cover their quaking backsides for them. And he can laugh to himself, because he knows they can't handle _her_; _he_ can't handle her – and if his father ever met her, his heart would be nothing but flecks of muscle in a splattered pool of blood.

But first, _he_ would have his little bit of fun and steal his father's breath away.


	8. Trying

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
8: Trying**

He didn't need to try doing anything, because the natural lull of events was enough to make his body tremble with pleasure. Ever since he'd seen her Medusa-face in the crowd, he'd known – known that she was the woman her father so fiercely hunted, and the woman who could saw his strings.

He followed her, danced with her – carefully, because he didn't want their little tango to be swallowed by a single moonless night, and he didn't want to disappoint. And he didn't, because he wasn't a bloodied carcass nailed in front of the Ministry of Magic as a statement – a thought she confessed had crossed her mind at some point.

But that was before their eyes had met, and she'd seen the sleeping serpent within, hungry for blood. A snake she couldn't help but oblige.


	9. Friend

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
9: Friend**

They weren't friends. They were many other things though: mentor and mentee, companions, teammates, partners in crime and much aside, but they weren't friends. The word did not exist in their world. _Love_ did not exist in their world; only lust.

And that was why there was no remorse spent in a few sparse minutes of passion within the shadow's grasp. No remorse for the bitter salt dregs that clung to their tongue, or the burning tears that forked and slithered past their seat. No remorse for the pant of wet breath on his ear, or the scratching moan gurgling within her throat. No remorse for the eyes that swept past their blanket of shadow without return, little grey stick figures flitting past the fourth wall.

The pair of them enjoyed the breath before a carnage; the dust figures enjoyed their last moments of life looking the other way.


	10. Pass

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
10: Pass**

She'd set him a test, and he fully intended to pass it. Because it _mattered_, not like his twelve OWLs, or the NEWTS that got him a spot in Auror training in the Ministry: a position of prestige, even if he was one of many new and hopeful recruits.

New he might have been, but certainly not helpful. That was why he was the picture calm: the picture his father was so _proud_ to see, unwavering in the face of mountains of effort, and danger.

He scoffed; the danger those Aurors talked of were nothing, _nothing_, compared to what truly happened in the world. They got the filtered version; it was the Muggles who got the worst – _or the best_, he thought, his lips twisting into a smirk that tugged painfully at his face. Because he hadn't had the chance to smirk so fully before, and it hurt despite how satisfying it felt.

He also hadn't had the chance to throw himself into a test before; it had never been so important, and so fulfilling. And he was proud when he passed – _proud_, not just content – even when he was soaked in sweat and blood and bodily fluid.


	11. Ring

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
11: Ring**

It was a pretty ornament, just for show, and she wore it for exactly those reasons. She didn't polish it like a Muggle fool – or those Wizards who thought the foolish customs of the Muggle world worth keeping alive. Why bother, when the flick of a wand repaired it to pristine health? And she certainly wouldn't spend any further time than necessary on that little façade; it looked like an ordinary wedding ring from a rich man, and that's how it stayed.

He wasn't one of those men who devoured her ring and felt the polish of love within it. In fact, when his lips kissed the stone for the first and last time, for the crowd, he felt nothing but the cold rough surface beneath his lips. But when he captured her lips another day, they were warm and smooth and moist and bitter, and he stole a drop of blood from her tongue.


	12. Phone

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
12: Phone**

The Muggles couldn't do anything right. The stupid steam engine that was the Hogwarts Express was slower and far less thrilling than the flying carpets that had preceded it. Their devices that saved a handful of lives in their hospitals held up the magical advancement of the magical institutions, as fools looking for integration tried to take those devices on and create something better.

And then there were Muggle-loving fools like Perkins who tried to integrate these objects into the human world, then spent all his spare time trying to track the failed results down.

Even that thing he called a "phone" was a waste; some Aurors commented how useful they would be, if they could dial a number in one corner of the world and be instantly connected to another. He scoffed whenever he heard it; there were plenty of other ways for communication, like the Dark Mark he wore on his arm. Like the Patronus that only the truly deluded could create. Like the soft pop of that chillingly glorious presence into existence, and the feel of that wet breath on his hear and those ice-cold fingers on his skin.


	13. Scavanger Hunt

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
13: Scavenger Hunt**

He was looking for something when he found her. She'd been looking for something too when she found him. They hadn't been looking for each other, but what did that matter when he was her path to salvation and he was a kindred spirit that she could entertain.

But they were both blind at first; they went for the little sparkling thing that had drawn them together instead of each other. But their battle of physical and mental wills soon lead to a meeting on more even grounds, and then a companionship as she accepted him into the fold.

He'd had to concede the upper hand to gain that freedom, and part of him resented the lost. But it was adequately compensated; whatever else she was, she was a woman and he the man, and when they melted within the sheets there were some shots that she simply could not deny to him, and he took with pleasure ten-fold. But through their feisty passion she'd still be sharp and slippery and poisonous, and if it weren't for magic he didn't think either of them would be able to walk properly for days – but then he'd laugh until his throat dried and she'd read his mind and laugh as well, because they weren't weak-minded Muggle fools who could never hope to reach their pedestal of life.


	14. Find

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
14: Find**

She was a woman who always knew what she wanted. _Always_.

She knew every curve and crevice of her body and soul, a knowledge that was worth more than life itself, and that only the truly deserving possessed. The rest of the world was filled with pitiful fools that carried nothing but bad blood to sully the good name of purity.

She knew her cause – unlike the deluded fools unworthy of kissing the hem of her master's robes. And _he_ knew she knew it too, because she was always held in higher regard, always in his shadow and far above those unable to look beyond the frayed ends of black. The only ones who came close were others who had given their hearts to the bloodbath that would purify their rotting little world – but she was above even them, because she could see their little doubts, their little stains.

Until _he_ came – because he cut his own wrists until those stains bled out and his blood was a gurgling bright red, and she found she didn't know every inch of herself after all.


	15. Secret

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
15: Secret**

The silence was grating, but a necessity. The Dark Lord had vanished without a trace, and it wouldn't do to get caught in the aftermath.

The three of them hid together: Bellitrax, her husband, and her brother-in-law. The only one they trusted with the information was him, because his loyalties at least were clear. If it hadn't been for cold reasoning, half the Auror office would have been bathed in a black fire.

Before foolish attacking was futile; even if they could kill Albus Dumbledore with a frontal attack, it mattered nothing if they took the last of the Dark Lord's base along with. So they waited, hid, searched for whispers to uncover the whereabouts of their master, of what defeated him, and how to return him to his former glory.

And he was their insider, the one with all the information and trust and whose identity was, for the moment, safe. It irked him, because he wanted to scream the truth in his father's face – but the fate of the Dark Lord took precedence.

It wasn't all that bad though, because he wound up spending more time than ever raking her with hungry eyes as his lips spoke and her ears drank.


	16. Lies

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
16: Lies**

He loved the taste of lies upon his tongue: the way it hummed, a womb, upon his lips as he nurtured it into words that could strike a fatal wound. The aftermath was delicious as well, lapping up the wasted blood that spilt from paper-cut wounds that couldn't close.

And she loved them as well, and he loved that. Loved watching her do her craft and reap the milk of her labour. He even gave into the inner masochist at times and let himself be the pincushion she pricked – but he laughed instead of cried, bit back when scratches…and they'd melt into a haze of red and black and grey and the masochist was lost within the sadism.

And they both lapped it up, and pled their apologies and regrets that neither of them believed nor regarded.


	17. Pocket

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
17: Pocket**

A lot of fools kept their treasures in their back pocket. Auror Moody was fond of threatening to blast the bullocks off the trainees that kept their wands there, or worse, an innocent looking picture of their family or a hasty lover.

He'd rant on about defence: misfired spells from wands that released pent up energy, people who were fooled by glamours and shadows for carelessness. And yet there was always someone called out in a training session, someone fool enough not to realise that sentiments were worth nothing in a cutthroat world.

His back pocket was always empty; when asked if he didn't have a lover, he'd laugh and say he did. Because he had one, and a family too – but the second he wanted to cut completely, and with the first he traded for stinging little paper cuts he kept under skin.


	18. Talk

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
18: Talk**

His parents had instilled into him the ways to court a lady: soft and pleasant talk, gentle gestures, a tender smile that almost made his lips bleed from the falsity of it all…but he didn't have to worry about that with _her_, because she wasn't the sort of woman he was to court.

It would probably kill his sickly mother if she knew, and he only felt a little sorry for her, weak and frail and trapped under his father's shadow. But she was blinded by the illusion called love, and there was only so much sympathy he could spare for her.

Her father though…he could only imagine glee and delight at the thought of his expression: stiff and pale and cracked as he dropped the bombshell at his feet. Ecstasy as he showcased the perfectly imperfect scars he cherished, the tracks of her enticing poison fuelling his veins, the bites where her fangs had pierced – and where he'd bitten and pricked and clawed right back.


	19. Represent

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
19: Represent**

She had many scars. The first was from her father when she was young and foolish and tamed. Some that came afterwards were the ones that cut her free, that let her loose to world that she could twist and turn at her own pleasure. The more recent ones were the blood that gave her her destiny: the ones from the Dark Lord himself that carved her into the perfect dusk by his side.

Some – a rare few – were from others she'd met through the road to life, those who hadn't slipped off her skin like water droplets dribbling on oil. Those scars were from the people _worth_ returning to, associating with, carving into her skin and letting the heat and fervour she couldn't release otherwise escape her skin.


	20. Help

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
20: Help**

His father was desperate, but desperation only fed the starving beast, and the son was only too happy to lap it all up.

He'd been getting impatient himself. Little scraps took far too long to find, and he wasn't fond of taking small morsels anyway. He didn't like being teased; he preferred the world to sweep him off his feet, to make his passion explode so that he collapsed, utterly spent and numb, instead of stinging constantly with little childish scrapes. He liked the taste of something raw, the screaming burns of fast-acting poison flaring up in his bones – and Medusa's stare freezing his heart into stone while feeding him from the Lord's blood wine goblet was perhaps his favourite of all.

But that was harder to come by, now, with both of them laying low, biding their time as they readied themselves to pounce. And his father had thrown him a bone, a bone that meant they could raise their heads above the ground where they'd been sniffing for little morsels of food and finally sink their teeth into the big catch.

The Dark Lord and his rescue of this pitiful _pitiful_ world was waiting, after all.


	21. Handle

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
21: Handle**

The way a person held their wand in a duel was interesting. If it hung limply off their fingertips, they couldn't be too concerned. If it was a jabbing motion, they were aggressive and didn't think too much about reach. Anarchic almost, as though it was a knife or a blade being stabbed down to someone they'd already restrained – so while the Dark Lord could and would use that motion for lesser beings who could not resist, most others did so only in overconfidence – and they paid the price.

Then there was the looser hold, enough so the wand could dance amiably across fingers and aim and many a direction, but not so much so that the firm grip was lost. That was the most common amongst the experienced, but also the less original.

_They_ were different. She held her wand with brittle-looking fingertips that could easily nudge the wand away from an Expelliamus and carve blood into the battle. His used to be of the typical Auror, but he watched her battles carefully and so how much more versatile her hold was, when she didn't rely on the sturdy calloused palm to support her but let those fingers that should do the guiding guide her. And he began to adopt that hold – part unconsciously, part not…because, and so, he could see her fingers dancing around his wand.


	22. Doorbell

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
22: Doorbell**

There is no barrier between them; they walk in and out of each other's lives like the wind. There is no prelude: no doorbell rung or handle knocked or greeting sparks sent up. They simply appear, and disappear, leaving marks that tattoo their skin for a breath and then fade away.

There is one mark though that binds them together, one that both were given by the same person, the man who had liberated them and created the world in which they could meet and be together. And it ties them even when they are separated by mortar and an air of unfeeling stone – because the feeling is not happiness that the Dementors can feast upon but a lust for that sweetly bitter tang of blood that even the cells of Azkaban can't keep at bay.


	23. Serious

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
23: Serious**

Barty doesn't feel much of a pang when Bella's willing to toss her life away for the Dark Lord. He's much the same after all. He'll miss her a bit if she dies, but she'll die for the only thing that keeps her grounded.

He's more than happy to take her to the skies.

It's the same the other way around. Bella doesn't think too much of Barty's willingness to risk everything for the cause, because she's the same as him. She'll drag him sky-high, drop him if it means something greater, dance with him when it's just the two of them and their lust together…

They could have seriously loved each other in another world, but they didn't know love.


	24. Ditch

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
24: Ditch**

She'd drop him in a ditch if he became dead weight, and that makes his flight with her all the more thrilling.

He's not sure why they're flying anyway. But it's a fun ride. Fun to be able to be _above_ everything, to be able to walk on the sky with the clouds falling through at any minute, to be able to be untouchable except for the woman around whose waist his arms were tightly wrap.

He wasn't much of a flyer usually, but the way the wind ripped the pair of them into shreds was irreplaceable. Flying with anyone else just wouldn't have been the same; no-one else would take such a ripping flight, and no-one else would be torn to shreds and stand up with clumsy sews holding all the skin in place.


	25. Late

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
25: Late**

They didn't know regret, or love. They didn't care for such things; instead, it was the taste of blood which was strongest on their lips, and they were both starving for it.

She was a marked woman; too many once-allies would sell her head to the Aurors if given half a chance, and she, despite her tenacity, could not demolish an entire system of law by herself. He was a carefully watched man: his father gloated more than ever about his victory over the Dark Lord –

As if they could defeat such a man, Barty viciously thought. And that churning hatred for his father erupted when the chance finally came to spill blood –

And Bellitrax was likewise a rabid animal ready to rip the Longbottoms into shreds.


	26. Mine

**A/N:** For the Monthly Het-tastic Drabble-athlon competition, January 2014.

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**jaggernaut  
26: Mine**

Barty did not remember Bella when he died, days later as an empty shell after the Dementors had swallowed his soul. He hadn't remembered her during the kiss either, or very much before that. Possibly, the last time he'd thought of her was when the Dark Lord had illustrated his plan to free his most loyal followers…

Bella barely noticed Barty's absence in the ranks when she finally returned. She certainly didn't remember him afterwards, when the war spread like the poison tentacles of a jellyfish. She didn't think of him at all when she tasted the blood of Hermione Granger (which _he_ would have enjoyed _oh_ so much). She didn't think of him when she withered under the Cruciatus, after her wand had been stolen, her vault broken into.

And she died without his name on her lips when Molly Weasley succeeded in striking her down.


End file.
